Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie

by Andrew P. Sykes

  The entrance, with the intricate façade above it, is known as La Puerta de Salamanca, or the door of Salamanca. If you stand in front of la puerta and can find the tiny frog amongst the mass of stone swirls, seashells, bearded men, crests, flowers and birds, it will, allegedly, bring you good luck. Even if you have remembered your binoculars, you'd be hard-pressed to find the little blighter. He sits on top of a skull on the right-hand side of the 400-year-old façade, more than a little worn down by four centuries of weather. Second top tip: if you can't find it (very likely), google it. That's what everyone, including me, appeared to be doing.

  The origins of the frog are a little ambiguous and the three possible theories resemble a round of Call My Bluff. Was it… put there for students to find and give them good luck in their exams? A symbol of sexual temptation to warn the then all-male cohort of students away from disease-ridden prostitutes? Or a certain Doctor Parra who failed to save the life of Prince Juan – represented by the skull – who died in 1497 at the tender age of just 19? Discuss.

  Leaving the Salamancan set of a 1970s panel game, I chose to get my dose of culture at the other university, the Universidad Pontificia, and was duly escorted around the building with a group of Spaniards, in Spanish. I was required to persist with the tour of all things Baroque in order to access the tower. It appeared from the street that it would offer good views over the city and surrounding countryside, and I wasn't disappointed. Looking south, beyond the fat layer of red tiles of the old city of Salamanca and a thinner band of modern suburbia, I could clearly see the mountains that I had climbed on the previous day. Turning to the north, I saw no mountains, just a distant patchwork of hazy green, yellow and brown fields. My onward journey promised to be a little less strenuous, for one day at least.

  Returning to street level and the constant croaking of plastic frogs, I did what should be done in all old towns and cities: I went for a wander in the hope of getting lost. I wasn't totally successful, in that a few minutes later my attention was drawn by a banner hanging from a first-floor window of the Centro Documental de la Memoria Histórica. Below an old black-and-white photograph of a soldier wearing a thick overcoat and a tin hat, with a rifle slung over his right shoulder and a wicker basket of food in his left hand, it read:

  Documentos de una guerra: España 1936–1939

  When I was in my mid-teens, the first travelogue that I ever read was Laurie Lee's As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. It recounts Lee's journey from his home in the Cotswolds to London and then, in the summer of 1935, to Spain. He started his own journey across Spain in the Galician port of Vigo, before heading east via Zamora – my next stop – and Valladolid to Madrid. Playing his violin to earn a little money, he continued south to Seville and then towards the sea at Cádiz. He wasn't a great fan, referring to the city's 'dismayed and half-mad citizens'. He then travelled to Tarifa to drink whiskey with fishermen and a 'mysterious dandy' from Cuba – no mention of healthy breakfasts – before being rescued, reluctantly, by a British destroyer in Gibraltar.

  It's difficult not to read As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning and Lee's subsequent books about his experiences during the Spanish Civil War in a romanticised haze, especially from the distance of over 80 years, and there's a part of me which would have loved to rediscover that seedy Cádiz of 1935 and meet its 'dismayed and half-mad' population.

  If a counterbalance were needed, however, it was provided in abundance in the Centro Documental de la Memoria Histórica, where there was little romanticism on display in the exhibition of Civil War documents. The posters, photographs and paintings organised into sections labelled 'political ideas', 'republican propaganda', 'repression' and 'exile' emphasised just how divisive and brutal the fight between Franco's Nationalists and the Republicans had been. I wondered what was going through the minds of the other visitors, especially those who had lived a significant part of their lives under the rule of the dictator Franco.

  In reality, I know that the harsh life of Spain in the 1930s would have me scuttling back to twenty-first-century Spain faster than an EasyJet flight to Malaga. Since Franco's death in 1975, the Kingdom of Spain has rebuilt itself as a strong and enduring democracy, whose citizens now enjoy all the freedoms that most other countries in Western Europe have had since the end of World War Two. Far better to be travelling in 2015 rather than 1935. Perhaps.

  THE SIXTH DEGREE

  41°–42° NORTH

  20–21 April

  Not only had the hills disappeared as I cycled north from Salamanca in the direction of Zamora, but so had most of the sheep, cows, bulls and pigs. Central Castilla y León was much more arable. Cycling through a flat landscape of crops didn't make for the most exciting of days on the bike but the sun was shining and I was happy to keep my mind active, as I contemplated the journey ahead through Spain and beyond.

  My thoughts may have been on future adventures but, only a few metres from the road, there was a reminder of those from the past: an abandoned railway line. There was a substantial network of 'Vías Verdes' – literally 'green ways' – in Spain: disused train tracks that had been converted for use by people travelling on foot or by bicycle. Before leaving Salamanca, I investigated the Vías Verdes network but didn't find any routes heading in my direction of travel. Perhaps the disused line from Salamanca to Zamora was on the 'to do' list.

  At one point a side road cut across the railway track and I was able to investigate it in more detail. The rusting rails had yet to be removed and a thick carpet of greenery had grown to cover the sleepers. A sign beside the defunct level crossing warned of non-existent trens. It would have been impossible to cycle along the line but I suspected that the Vía de la Plata's walking pilgrims would make good use of it. Then again, who needed an abandoned railway to cycle along when there was a perfectly good and allbut-abandoned major highway available? Perhaps this was why it remained on the Vías Verdes 'to do' list. The sleepers in this corner of Spain had been left to doze.

  —

  I had little expectation of Zamora being anything other than a quiet, overnight stop. It was only mid-afternoon on a sunny spring day so I cycled into the centre without making any effort to pause and read up on accommodation options. I found the Plaza Mayor; it wasn't of Salamancan standards but, then again, few were. A large Romanesque church dominated the scene, and I stretched out under its shadow and did nothing but relax.

  'The joy of Zamora lies in its quiet old-town quarter… and its 22 pale-stone Romanesque churches...' according to my guidebook. I looked up and glanced around. It was certainly quiet. Opposite the church, the terraces of several bars were open for business but remained almost empty. To my right, a huddle of taxis and police cars had been parked, waiting for their respective drivers to either pick up a fare or chase a criminal. For a few moments, I was happy watching life pass slowly by…

  I then noticed a cyclist in the far corner of the Plaza Mayor. He had panniers on his bike, and I wondered where he was coming from and going to. The shadow of the church tower had moved and my feet were beginning to feel the benefit; I shuffled the rest of my body into the sun to make the most of the warming rays, closed my eyes and resumed my state of relaxation.

  '¡Hola!'

  It was the cyclist. I held up my hand to shield the sun from my eyes and responded.

  '¡Hola!… Ah! Hola!'

  It was the German guy I had met a few days previously in Zafra, the one I suspected of being a priest on a pilgrimage, the one I wanted to talk to about being a proper pilgrim. Here was the opportunity I had been hoping for.

  His name was Dirk: he was in his forties and from Hanover. Since meeting in Zafra, he had continued to use the 'official' route, although he did admit to resorting to the N-630 at times when things became a little tough. He was staying – usually for free – in the pilgrim hostels. I felt embarrassed to admit that I hadn't veered from the N-630 in days and that the greatest hardship I had encountered as far as accommodation was concerned was the broken
shower in my first hotel in Salamanca. I suggested we continue our chat later in the evening and he proposed that we meet up at 8 p.m. for a beer. I decided it would be at that point that I would delve deeper into his religious soul.

  After checking into yet another cheap hotel, I returned to the centre of Zamora. As the bell in the clock tower of the Iglesia de San Juan struck eight, I entered the Plaza Mayor from one side just as Dirk approached from the other. That's British and German timing for you. We chose one of the bars in the square and sat outside to indulge.

  'I'm not a priest,' laughed Dirk.

  'Sorry, I just imagined that… Well, you being a pilgrim and…' I was stumbling over my words, as I couldn't think of another reason why I had thought he was a priest apart from him looking like one.

  'I'm a journalist. I used to work for the popular German newspaper Bild.'

  Whatever alternative occupations for Dirk might have passed through my mind, tabloid journalist hadn't been one of them.

  'I'm not even very religious. I liked the idea of taking a bit of time out to think.'

  He explained that, since leaving the newspaper, he had worked as a political advisor for the German politician David McAllister, the former Prime Minister of Lower Saxony. Finding himself again 'between jobs', but having previously embarked upon some serious cycle touring in South America in his younger days, he had left his wife and young daughter to fend for themselves for a few weeks in Hannover while he rekindled his two-wheeled passion. Religious enlightenment would have to wait for another day.

  Dirk talked about the problems of not using the roads for his journey. The surface quality of the paths wasn't great and he was spending much longer than me in the saddle. Since our initial meeting in Zafra, we had covered the same straight-line distance but – by following a route that deviated tortuously across, below and occasionally over the N-630 and the autovía – he had cycled much further. However, as he talked, I thought about my uneventful day. I could see the attraction in his way of doing things. I asked if he would mind me cycling with him the following morning and we agreed to do just that.

  The pilgrim hostels that Dirk was using may have been cheap – often free – but they did have their downsides. If you weren't back in the building by 10 p.m., the doors would be locked and you would need to make alternative arrangements. This was going to severely curtail our evening of beer and tapas. What's more, although he had met many interesting people, some did have their idiosyncrasies.

  'Are there a lot of other cyclists in the hostels?' I enquired.

  'Not many but there was one guy last night in Salamanca who was with his girlfriend. In the middle of the night we started hearing loud panting in the dormitory. They were having sex.'

  It was a pity that Dirk no longer worked for the tabloid newspaper back in Germany; this had all the potential of a good story.

  'He was from South America: dark skin, beard…'

  'Marcos?'

  'Yes, that's him.'

  I could now see why Marcos – the Jesus lookalike from Plasencia – had been so keen to make progress north; he clearly had things on his mind. Dirk really had witnessed the second coming, perhaps even the first.

  —

  It was with renewed enthusiasm for travel that I met up with Dirk the following morning. I was looking forward to doing things 'properly' along the Vía de la Plata, for one day at least. That said, it wasn't until after about 15 km that the pilgrims' route deviated away from the N-630. Perhaps I hadn't been doing things so wrong after all, but Dirk was in charge and I would follow.

  Compared to the mud lane I had attempted to cycle along near Seville, the off-road sections north of Zamora were OK. Our pace was slow but as it wound its way through the countryside, the path got us up close and personal with nature in a way that I had been missing. The boring fields of crops became flying carpets of vegetation above which birds swooped. Distant ramshackle buildings revealed themselves to be abandoned and crumbling ghost-filled castles when viewed at close quarters. And the disused railway was about to become altogether more interesting.

  We noted from the map that there was a river ahead but no apparent bridge. The path was disappearing fast into undergrowth and the adjacent railway line was no longer anywhere to be seen. Was this the reason why following the road was a much better idea? Dirk was more confident. Presumably, this was the kind of dead-end problem he had been encountering all week. He consulted his guidebook.

  'According to the directions, the path is up here,' he explained, pointing up a steep bank that was almost entirely covered in thick vegetation. A small, graffitied building gave some glimmer of hope that we weren't the first humans ever to pass this way. 'I think there's a bridge of some description.'

  A minute or so later I was at the top of the bank – the embankment of the disused railway line, which would have been impossible to cycle along since the rusting rails and sleepers were still in place beneath the weeds. To my left, however, there was indeed a bridge, and what a bridge it was. Over the river, the rails shot off seemingly to a point of infinity. They had been laid over iron supports, and Mother Nature had yet to encroach on the lattice of Meccano-like ironwork. Between the rails, metal sheets had been laid, allowing anyone who discovered the bridge to walk or cycle easily to the other side of the river. I shouted down the embankment to give Dirk the good news but when he appeared from the jungle of vegetation, he seemed somewhat less surprised than I had been.

  'It's just what it said in the guidebook directions,' he commented, Germanically.

  Our destination – Benavente – was now not far. It turned out to be not as well-kept as Zamora but just as quiet. We found a bar near the centre of town and sank a couple of beers to toast the successful, mainly off-road, day of travel. I wondered what I had been missing by following the N-630 so religiously but reasoned that with such a long journey ahead of me, I had made the correct decision to play it safe and not risk damage to myself or Reggie along the rough country paths.

  For the time being, however, I remained in learning mode and Dirk remained in charge of my pilgrimage education. He explained that he needed to find the tourist office as, according to his guidebook, it held the key to the pilgrims' hostel. He also needed a stamp for his pilgrimage passport. He had already collected a few stamps earlier in the day in bars. I wasn't quite convinced and wondered whether he really needed them or if it was just an excuse to have another beer. His attitude to alcohol during the day was very liberal compared to my own no-beer-until-the-cycling-stops rule.

  I felt a little uneasy about exploiting the Vía de la Plata pilgrim thing. I wasn't a pilgrim and I had only been following the pilgrimage path for one day with Dirk.

  'But it's free,' stated Dirk.

  'Good point,' I replied, rapidly casting my morals aside.

  We decided to spend our money elsewhere and, after leaving our bikes and kit at the deserted hostel, we headed for the nearby Parador. The Paradores chain of hotels is to Spanish tourism what Château Lafite Rothschild is to French wine: usually expensive but always classy. The verb parar means to stop or stay. It doesn't translate as to sit on a terrace, drink beer and eat good food but that's what Dirk and I did at the Parador in Benavente. There are 94 Paradores across Spain and they tend to be located in castles or former monasteries. The first opened in 1928 on a site chosen by none other than King Alfonso XIII and, on and off, they have been thriving ever since. The Parador de Turismo in Benavente was a converted castle with origins in the twelfth century but its unblemished, somewhat plain, walls and turrets gave little indication of it having seen much military action since then. Inside, brick beams and arched ceilings overlooked large rooms of heavy oak furniture, but Dirk and I chose to eat al fresco in a small garden. Guests of the hotel were far outnumbered by staff, making me wonder whether we weren't the only tourists to have opted for the cheaper option of a pilgrim hostel. Although it had appeared deserted earlier on, our hostel might, perhaps, be somewhat less so when we re
turned later in the evening.

  More drinking ensued back in the centre of Benavente – Dirk was certainly leading me astray – but whereas I stuck to beer, he opted for doubles of gin and tonic. We eventually swayed our way back to the hostel late in the evening for a night of free slumber. When it came to rest, it didn't matter where I laid my head: Parador or pilgrim hostel, sleep was sleep. That said, your chances of being woken by a Brazilian having sex with his girlfriend in the bottom bunk were somewhat less in the former. I would have to take my chances.

  THE SEVENTH DEGREE

  42°–43° NORTH

  22–28 April

  My quest to traverse the 35 degrees of latitude between Tarifa and Nordkapp was about to slow significantly. Over the course of the next week, as I made my way towards the forty-third degree of latitude – somewhere near the French border – I would need to cycle through four degrees of longitude. As far as longitude went, I had hardly budged an inch since leaving Tarifa on 9 April. It would be a long lurch to the east.

  Most of the day spent cycling from Benavente to Palencia was monumentally uneventful. I sensed that Dirk wasn't a morning person when I poked my head into his dormitory to say goodbye. Or was it the gin? I surmised that it was most likely a combination of the two, shook his hand, wished him luck for the remainder of his journey to Santiago de Compostela and was off.